


Bass & Double-Kick

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [7]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Trans Pickles the Drummer, fart jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: A collection of short stories in which Pickles and Murderface do totally gay stuff together.
Relationships: William Murderface/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1125033
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Bass & Double-Kick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during season 1, in the first submarine.

Pickles wakes with a certain sense of foreboding that he can’t place. He hasn’t totally sobered up from the night before, it’s not Fan Day, he doesn’t have to take a piss, he’s actually warm on this stupid submarine for once. . . . At the moment, he’s feeling pleasantly squished between the metal bulkhead the bunk is attached to and the living furnace his arm is curled around. 

Oh, yeah. He smiles sleepily to himself. Right. He’d finally talked the big lug into spending the night in his room so he wouldn’t wake up shivering in a blanket cocoon— _fuck_ his ma and shitty circulation she’d passed down, seriously. 

Everything’s fine. So . . . what woke him up?

Then Pickles hears it: a soft _phhuut_ And then another one. And then . . . waiting for it. . . . Another one. He realizes he can feel them too, a little extra breeze of warmth against his y-fronts. Hoping it isn’t what he knows it is, he cautiously sniffs. The sniff turns quickly into a gag, but luckily he manages not to hurl. 

“Murderface,” he croaks, squeezing the arm he has about the other man’s cushiony middle and trying to shake him awake. Unfortunately, all this does is waft the smell into his face like a bellows, and also Pickles ends up a little more pinned than before as Murderface rocks back against him. “Murderface! _Murderface_ , ya douchebag, _wake up!_ ” 

The bassist grumbles in his sleep, only to be rudely snapped awake when Pickles moves his hand down and slaps (not very hard) the guy’s hog. “The fuck, Picklesch?!”

“Yer fartin’,” Pickles chokes out. “It’s a goddamn fart storm, get off me!”

“Yeah, but, you don’t juscht—”

“Get off or I’ll do it again!”

Murderface groans and rolls out of the narrow bunk. (By rights, two grown men shouldn’t be able to fit in it together, but that was why Murderface had taken the outside. He could hang off the edge a certain amount while proportionally still being enough on the bed to not fall out.) And all the while, the farts continue. 

As soon as he can, Pickles slaps a hand over his nose and mouth. “Gahd, fuck dood! What’d you fuckin’ eat last night?”

“It was beansch night in the mesch hall,” Murderface whines. “Everyone wasch eating ‘em!”

“Well maybe _you_ shouldn’t eat ‘em anymore! Gahd, crack a window or somethin’!”

Murderface scoffs in a poor attempt at covering up his guilty blush. “Uh, we’re in a _schubmarine_ , Picklesch? If I open a window we’ll all _die_? We are under, asch the schailor schaid, the _schea_?”

“ _Will you just tuck yerself in and open the door_?” Pickles snaps, glaring a death glare that luckily is pointed away from the ocean-ward bulkhead behind him because it might be capable of _melting steel_. 

Relenting, Murderface hurries over to the door and hastily opens it a crack. 

Pickles collapses back down on the bed, hoping that the fumes have dispersed or risen high enough to get a good breath in. It hasn’t, but it’s not quite as bad as before. “Dood.” He chuckles, then breaks down into an honest to god giggle. “What a way ta wake up, huh? That was like a twenty-one handgun salute in the key of F!”

“Schut up,” Murderface grumbles. He shuffles back over to the bed and starts hunting around for his shirt and pants, but falls still easily enough when Pickles rolls over and hugs him awkwardly around the waist. 

“Dood calm down, I’m not laughin’ at _you._ Come’ahn.” He pulls at him until Murderface sits on the bed—now that the bassist is awake, the farting is under control and no longer a hazard. This in mind, Pickles wiggles closer. In fact, he wiggles his way up and into sitting on Murderface’s lap. “Twenty-one toot salute, heh. Get it?”

Murderface, still inclined to be sullen, struggles against a smile. “No.”

“Oh come ahn, that shit’s hilarious. Look, hey.” He nips playfully at the end of Murderface’s nose, and when the other man looks up indignantly he plants a big ol’ kiss on his chapped lips. “Could’a had a better wakeup call, but I can’t say I mind the company.”

“. . . The door’sch open,” Murderface mumbles. 

“No one’s gonna be up this early.” Pickles smirks and kisses him again, satisfied when, by the time he pulls back, Murderface is getting pretty into kissing back. “Hey, wanna hear somethin’ cool?”

Murderface has both of his warm, warm hands firmly on Pickles’ ass, ostensibly and heroically making sure the smaller man doesn’t fall off his lap. “Schure?”

“You just gave me a really good idea for a song. Everyone’s gonna love it, it’s totally brutal.”

Lime green eyes spark at that. “Really? Can I get writer’sch credit on it?”

“I’ll give it a shot, dood,” Pickles promises, hedging slightly because he’s not going to know how that’ll go until it happens, but, hey, he’ll do what he can. And saying that is worth it, because Murderface is genuinely smiling and it’s a fairly rare sight. It makes Pickles want to give the smelly bastard a hug, but hugs usually get filed under Murderface’s ‘too gay’ category. Which is kinda funny, because having gay sex and actually doing gay stuff together is conspicuously missing from that list, not even under ‘neutral’ or ‘good’. . . . But Pickles gets that; different people feel ready to come out of the closet at different times, and he’s cool with it. So instead, he wraps his legs around him and gives a suggestive squeeze. 

Murderface is happy to heft him up and lay him back down on the bed, leaning over the smaller man—and he sees the startled look that crosses Pickles’ goateed face right when his back hits the mattress. “Hey, what’sch wrong?”

Then Murderface smells it, and his face twists into a grimace. 

“Schit! Picklesch, you did that on purposche!”

Beneath him, Pickles starts to laugh. “No, no, I swear! It’s just. . . .” He grins hugely. “I had the beans too!”

“That wasch schilent but deadly!”

“It was just one fart though,” the drummer manages between gusts of laughter. 

Murderface’s lips twitch. Before he knows it he’s chuckling too, and then suddenly he’s dipping his head down to bury his own laughter against the crook of Pickles’ neck, which only makes Pickles laugh harder because he’s fucking ticklish. Just two good buddies laughing their asses off together in a room full of farts, in their underwear, on a submarine deep in the Mariana Trench. 

You know. Like regular dudes.


End file.
